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CiJEMSIGHT DEPOSm 



RESURGENCE 



RESURGENCE 



BY 

LESLIE G. SHAW 




NEW YORK 

MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 

1922 



RESURGENCE 



BY 



LESLIE G. SHAW 




NEW YORK 
MOFFAT, YARD AND COMPANY 

1922 






Copyright, 1922, 

by 

Moffat, Yard and Company 



Printed by 

The Barnes Printing Co., Inc. 

229 W. 28th St.. N. Y. 



DEC 2C 1922 
©C1A692580 



To 
JOAN 



CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Resurgence 11 

A Legend 13 

Adventurer 14 

In a Storage House 15 

The Purple Decadence of 1890 18 

Antiphony 20 

Ivory Tower 22 

Annunciation 23 

A Companion 24 

The Crickets 25 

Two Friends 26 

Fra Lippi's Nun 27 

To A Poet 28 

Mediaeval Wanderer's Song 29 

A Giver of Good Gifts 30 

Love and Death 32 

Failure 33 

Da Vinci's Head of Christ 34 

Subconscious 35 

Supplication 36 

Against Death Pomp 37 

The Alchemist 38 

Beatrice D'Este To a Lover 39 

The Suicide 41 

To A Seaman 42 

Neuroses 44 

The Undying 45 



Symbolic 47 

The Mother 48 

The Living Dead 49 

Rest 50 

Waste 51 

To 52 

Lisa Gioconda 54 

To A Wood Thrush 56 

Challenge 57 

A Mediaeval Portrait 58 

To 69 

Forgiveness 60 

Nocturne After Chopin 61 

The Isles of the Blest 62 



RESURGENCE 



RESURGENCE 

THERE was a time when ever gloriously 
Unto my heart a music, as in prophecy, 
Sang down the years — A magic golden horn. 
Heralding a valiant pageantry at morn. 
When yellow banners rose in gallant praise 
Of the mighty forward march of conquering days. 
And then, as brief and brilliant as a dying 

sun. 
Bronze tones and blazoned banners faded and 

were done. 
Then others said to me, Be now mature, 
Pass by the myths of childhood, find the lure 
Of adolescence but illusions mask. 
And measure to the stature of an adult task. 
I spoke in scorn, It was a voice of truth 
I heard ; Not one, as yours, in error spoke to soothe 
Me into lethargy, and so be brought 
Into your stuffy chambers of sick thought. 

And denying ever its alloy 

Still was I forsaken of old joy. — 
Now fled the virgin rapture of sweet Spring, 
And Autumn's fragrant mellowness — The sting 
Of keen response to earth that one-time surged 
Like April sap in maples, upward — urged. 
Had passed, as fleeting as a bird on wing. 
Something was gone, and it was everything. 



As if I swam and sank in oily waves, 
I knew only oblivion that laves 
The weary mind with peace and murmuring 
sound, 

[11] 



And visions swift; And in soft treachery bound, 

I could not free myself, until at length, — 

And years it may have been that passed — ^the 

strength 
Of great extremity arose in me. 

1 heard afar a rustling melody, 

A living symphony of hidden things. 

Of crickets chirping near green leaves. Of wings 

That swiftly beat the perfumed air in flight, 

And little buds singing their way to light. 

It trembled in my ear as the muted roar 

Of waves on a dear and long-forgotten shore. 

I wept with joy, and then I surely rose 

As by a miracle; And where I chose, 

I walked upon the languorous waves, whose power 

Had grown, mist-like, illusion in that hour; 

I cried. Now have I wakened from a dream. 

Have seen the falsehood in its lambent gleam. 

And even as I spoke, the conquering song. 

Trumpeted in golden horn so long, 

Swelled to diapason, and glowing, hung 

Like clouds of fire upon the air, and flung 

A rhythmic challenge to the listening sea. 

And sent forth tidings, not of victory 

That was to be, but victory that was, 

Over death, and sleep more dark, and ills that 

pass. 
And it confirmed the steady faith that wills. 
The everlasting stars, the little hills. 
"Beauty for ashes," it sang; a long re-birth; 
Joy renewed at the mother-breast of earth. 



[12] 



A LEGEND 

SHE was a lover of beauty, 
And she wanted to write of beautiful things — 
"Of old, unhappy far-off things," 
She called them. 

At any rate they were nowhere near. 
But the neighbor's player-pianos on the little side 

street 
Hammered out jazz, or else 
They played "Burning of Pompeii." 
And then there were talking machines, of course. 
And in the summer evenings 
The tremulous bleating of a cornet 
Essayed futilely to find "The Lost Chord." 
The children fought lustily in the streets. 
And their mothers talked over porch railings of 

sales 
On georgette crepe and granite ware. . . . 
And a deadly pall clouded her vision. 

Until one day she remembered 

That the king of men had moved 

Understandingly among all people 

And had spoken to them in parables 

And had shared in immeasurable love 

Their pleasures or their grief. 

And then she thought that many years ago 

The futile cornetist was a shepherd 

Piping to Syrian hills, 

And the shrill-voiced women 

Were the madonnas of many an ancient twilight. 

Painted by old masters. 

[13] 



ADVENTURER 

EVER you wooed vicarious romance 
Wore gallantly and with a royal mien 
Your robes of poverty as you had been 
The chosen of some mighty circumstance. 
And in a bark absurdly frail you rode 
Triumphantly and sure uncharted seas — 
Untutored quite, yet with consummate ease 
You braved high storms, when lordly giants 

strode 
Across black battling clouds — and asked no rest. 
With demon courage and a faith sublime 
You sailed beyond the rocks for some strange 

clime 
That even you, afar, might not have guessed. 
Whatever port it may have proved, we knew 
Who knew your simple craft, that first land-fall 
Was made with colors flying, spite of squall 
Or calm, and that romance awaited you. 



[14] 



IN A STORAGE HOUSE 

REMARKABLE how clear my mind is, 
As to detail. — 
"No, this picture is numbered 38," 
I tell the skilled packer, appallingly efficient. 
And I think how I bought the picture. 
One golden afternoon in Florence, 
And judged just how it might wonderfully be 

placed 
Above a little lacquered table. 
"Yes, that goes to the auction rooms, 
Along with 35 and 37. 
That percolator — 0, send it too ; 
It may bring a beggar's dime or so." 
"But, lady — I'll give you a dime for it." 
I attend vaguely to such subtle degradation — 
"Why, how absurd of you — keep it, of course. 
And that kitchen ware — and any of those little 

things." 
I think ironically how cheaply bought 
Is this new aura of munificence. 
"And this? Certainly you may have it; 
Take it to your wife. 
You have a wife?" 0, yes, he had. 
Most men had wives, I reflected. 
Perhaps some even loved them. — 
I wonder how rapidly and well 
An infant cynicism grows these days. — 
These packers, they need any little scrap 
They can gain from the debris 



[15] 



Of shifting or of broken homes. 

It was just as well, no doubt, they didn't know 

How proudly that was bought, how joyfully this. 

Such a dingy and disordered kind of work 

It must be for them. 

Seeing always unbuilding — ^their minds 

Must be crushed under mountains 

Of stray detail — amazingly anomalous 

Are these desk contents, heaped on the floor. 

"And just one thing more — Yes, I've given you 

The address for all these different lots. 

And now that's done, for all of us." 

I tell myself there's nothing left 

And the memory will be cut clean 

Like a most admirable surgical wound. 

Very cordially they take me to the elevator. 

The percolator no doubt did that. 

Somehow even the manager exudes cordiality. 

"Well, we don't usually take checks. 

But we'll take yours." 

And my demon-clear mind 

That works so well when nearest 

The abyss of pain, records, like a camera 

His heavy jowls and kindly eyes. 

He had need for kindness, in this business, 

He who saw so much of wreckage 

And guessed much more, that wasn't there to see. 

And as the demon-camera mind works on. 

Stray flashes come from nowhere, unbidden — 

A puzzled child asking her mother 



[16] 



One sultry Sunday afternoon, to explain 

What she had learned that day 

About a house built on the sands — 

And a young girl in a street-car, 

Going to work. 

From whose coral lips came. 

In nasal nonchalance, 

"0, well, the first hundred are the hardest !" 



[17] 



THE PURPLE DECADENCE OF 1890 
{Suggested by Holbrook Jackson's ''The 1890's") 

A THOUSAND strange and curious stones in- 
laid 
And wrought in fretted gold — that flash and 

grow; 
In each new light a warm and different glow — 
And scented peacock feathers strangely made. 

Brocaded robes and robes of pearly frost 
And velvet cloaks and noble hats with plumes 
That undulate and vary as a flower that blooms, 
And pass 'neath palace doors with arms embossed, 
Or ride in glittering equipage to gaze 
Upon the picturesque and poor, that throng 
The London streets — ^those Juliets of chance 
Those passing Venuses of red romance 
Who smile and dally as they pass among 
Old scarlet poets of new and perverse ways. 

The gentle dandy poetizing down the strand 
Who later clothed in Sapphic dressing-gown 
Writes those brave sonnets that the rich demand 
Or for a nod from some Earl plays the clown. 

Lean hectic youths who tavernwards are bound 
In search of peripatetic days of lore 
When sages gathered at the tavern door 
To see in wine what wisdom could be found. 



[18] 



A thousand books in bindings rare and mellow 
With pages made unique with black and white 
And magazines bound in a classic yellow 
To put decorum in a proper fright. 

The palace of varieties new born 
Where gathered minor bards who sang the charms 
Of dancing wenches, as of Helen, until morn 
Then wrote in anguished verse of empty arms. 
And "art for art" that grew strange hot-house 

flowers, 
And made a murmurous music for the dreary 

hours. 



[19] 



ANTIPHONY 

OGOD, thou hast laid me low 
I bow my head before thy wrath, 
As a broken tree before a mighty wind. 
But I will comfort thee. 

My deeds are scattered in the dust 
And no good comes of them. 
My friends have forsaken me. 
Believe in me. 

Nay, I will deny thee 
For thou hast forsaken me; 
I will dig deep into my own heart for comfort. 
/ am the living God, 

I will dig deep into the giant man 
Caged in me 

Like a mighty beast in fetters. 
/ am thy strength, 

I will proclaim my greatness. 
Men shall know that the beast is unfettered. 
They will flee before his strength. 
Thou shalt love thy brother. 

Nay, I love him not. 
I shall conquer him: 
He shall tremble in fear before me. 
Man's wrath availeth not. 



[20] 



If wrath availeth not, 
If sin slay itself, 
What shall prevail? 
Love shall prevail. 

But my brother loves me not; 
He has mocked me. 
My heart is sore against him, 
Love begets love. 

I cannot love : my faith is dead. 
I see no beacon, rising calm 
Above the seething waves of discord. 
Thy faith shall be renewed, 

God, that I might abandon myself 

As a seaman to the waves. 

And let thy kindness bear me up. 

Thou shalt, for thou hast so desired. 



[21] 



IVORY TOWER 

IN silver cloth and frosted robes you sate 
And mused how strange the sounds that came 
and went 
Or how in clamoring haste the days were spent 
Beyond the quiet of your chateau gate, 
Where now forewarned all Spring did lay in wait 
The trellised roses bearing high their scent 
To you, entowered, who heeding never fate 
Saw youth go daily by and no lament. 

In splendour drew and wavered in the park 
A fragrant shadow holding still faint gleam 
Of sunset's warmth, and glowed, till like a dream 
All vanished and the castle lay in dark. 
And as a barren breeze blew round the town. 
You drew your robes about you and came down. 



122] 



ANNUNCIATION 

LIES beauty in all things. 
Now to a barren world of freshly riven 
wounds 
Comes virgin proof of life that still abounds 
And from some mystic teeming-source still 

springs. 
The race is not yet run. 
All is not said ; nor sealed to hope the gates 
While loveliness in hiding, potent waits 
On that high time when birth shall have begun. 
Be not to Isis so unjust as to deny 
A fitting spring-time measure of deep joy! 

Where mountain heights are set in mist of dreams 

And rhododendrons show pale bloom 

Against an April sky. And woodland gloom 

Gives interval of vagrant happy streams, 

And old grey rocks above the heath 

Guard this dim valley's twilight rest — 

There Spring bids us be still, that we attest 

Her living triumph over death. 

That she may new-world intimations give 

Of all that dies and still does live. 



[23] 



A COMPANION 

YOUR thoughts, like fireflies glimpsed at dusk, 
and lost. 
And seen again, and, leading through still groves 
Now wrapped in scented solitude, where roves 
A wind before the rain — a faery host — , 
Beguile me into phantasy of foreign lands; 
And from dim shores comes an old wail of men 
Barbaric, in strange splendor, or again 
I feel the fire of sun on patient sands. 

And on enchanted seas I voyage where 
Arises new temples and new shrines of art. 
And men thrill to new learning with one heart 
That through the ages they may torches bear. 
Yours is the magic word that bids me roam. 
And yours, the steady lamp that lights me home. 



[24] 



THE CRICKETS 

YOU sing of things of olden times 
And magic seas in twilight lands 
Of drooping sky and white-stretched sands 
And rhyming tongues in witching climes. 
How is it that your monotone 
Leaves me enchanted, and alone? 



[25] 



TWO FRIENDS • 

YOU were a guest invited to a feast 
For whom we brought choice stores 
And placed them consciously to please 
That you might find a worthy board. 

You . . . You entered by the open door 
And sat with us the while we spoke 
Of simple things . . . and shared our bread, 
A silent blessing in your love. 



[26] 



FRA LIPPFS NUN 

THOU lovely one ! 
An age of naive peace 
And innocence, with un-increase 
Of harm — still nun — 
About thee lies. 
Life's fairest gift of fruit 
And knowingness find shallov^ root 
In virgin place . . . For eyes 
Hast thou to see a measured plane. 
Still unaware with sweet tranquility 
And mild assurance of no part 
In worldlings motley train. — 
As in deep cloistered hush, with rarest art 
Of quietude, eternal be! 



[27] 



TO A POET • 

BRIGHT child and free of Greek and glorious 
age, 
Spirit from its ampler time far-strayed, 
An Attic mind swift-flashing as a blade 
Through time-worn myths of mediocre gage — 
In you, Prometheus like, a hint of rage 
And impotence, when virile thought not weighed 
To mellowness bids your fine raptures fade 
Before reality — life's barren stage — 
A cynic hand upon a youthful dream. 
Still may you paint in colors rich as wine 
Your pagan dance where softly plays the gleam 
Of polished limb against the laden vine, 
Until at length from life's long-stagnant stream 
You draw anew old beauty to be mine. 



[281 



MEDIAEVAL WANDERER'S SONG 

THE open road is my abode 
And wandering is my sweetest rest; 
New paths I roam my only home 
And every bird and beast my guest. 
And as I rove I widely love — 
I wear my heart upon my sleeve 
And it is lost at no great cost — 
Who gains so much might never grieve — . 
For one new moon I count a boon 
And every star a new allure; 
I woo this flower and every hour 
I find it most amazing pure. 
Who finds lost gleams in sunset streams 
Or greets the dawn beyond the hill 
May with me fare and all things share, 
And stay or leave me at his will. 



[29] 



A GIVER OF GOOD GIFTS - 
Beauty is a gift — Gautier 

HE said — You are all wondrous fair 
No such stars in heaven, as in your eyes 
Made quiet by lashes-dusk. And your hair 
Holds light of purple and rare bronze, and lies 
Close by your cheek in truest symmetry 
Of waves, that shine in secret, sudden lights. 
Or merge into a softest cloud. — One fittingly 
To frame a nun*s white brow. Or else affrights 
Your calmer moods with tempestuous swirl 
And wantonness of brown and scornful curl. 

You are no thing of one dull patterning 

Like unto a day of all drear clouds, or one 

Of same stint, changeless measure, lightning 

Only the cloud to bright and wearisome sun. 

Never from elfish art 

Might graceful wit thus stray; 

Alike of sun and shade you take a part 

To fashion your unique and charming day. 

Cool rains and April-misted nights, and blue 

Thin skies and Autumn fires are all a part of you. 

Your voice conveys to me the sound of water, sing- 
ing 

In far and happy places; and the mouth that 
frames 

Sweet words has magic power of bringing 

Light to dead discourse that slower logic lames. 

Of wit and art and beauty you are wholly made. 

Nor one, nor any other part does so outvie the 
other 

[30] 



That any needsome grace is placed in shade 
Or man is left with power to fancy yet another. 
I know no swinish man, in courtesy 
So-called, who worthy of your slightest whim 
might be. 

Your breasts are white, and sweeter yet the soul 
Of broadly loving youth, that charity to all 
Does daily know and practice. And so, whole 
In being, builds between the two no stunting wall. 
Soft are your hands and shapen so 
That music drawn from ivory keys, through 

power 
In them, is treble prized. And low 
And hush't each melody of your enchanted hour. 
And so faint music runs through all your days 
And dims with sorcery your matchless ways. 

And yet, poor man, he grossly lied 

In all but this, his faith. For ever 

Has it been to man denied 

In love, the truth and seeming to dissever. 

Grace might have been, and was, no doubt 

As grace in woman goes. But had he known 

Himself, the artist's art he had found out. 

Then birth might he have given to fool's groan — 

For thus it is, in conjuring charms, the lover 

Fails he never. He wishes for, bespeaks 

A gift (It grows to being, and another 

From depths unknown, an Aphrodite rises). 

Seeks 
Vari-coloured passion from the buoyant springs 
His own; and straightway thanks unto his lady 

sings! ^3^ J 



LOVE AND DEATH 

NOW, Death, I greet you with a willing Yea ! 
Desiring nothing here on earth, I yearn 
For still and slumb'ring places, for this day 
I've drunk life deep: her fires no longer burn. 



Forever in a twilight realm I'd hold 

Close to my heart the wondrous murm'ring voice 

Of you, who, knowing dim ultimate things. 

Proclaimed us one, and near you drew the wings 

Of rare and holy angels who rejoice 

When earth's dull chains of use and want do 

break 
And earth's mean blasphemies of facile love 
Are silenced in victorious cries that shake 
The pillars of love's temple where now move 
Old priests who cower and mumble toothless 

prayer 
That their dull creeds and rites shall still enslave. 
. . . Dead futile art — for in your love you bear 
Kich ageless alchemies that time's lies brave. 



No more I'll turn and fret at prison bars 
Of sense — With you, a living flame, I rise 
Beyond all human touch, and singing stars 
I move among in night's eternal skies. 
No more I'll chafe, imprisoned in life's dream — 
In earth or heaven is no thing can change 
This splendid moment as it towers supreme 
Guarded in mysteries beyond life's range. 
Now feeling all, with striving all forgot 
With your high soul attained, I long for rest. 
Come Death! and wean me from such empty lot, 
My lips are hungry for still Lethe's breast. 
[32] 



FAILURE 

I SOUGHT to veil in robes of mirth, true sight 
That cried all false the fevered path of days, 
Bearing rich thought before them in a maze 
Of sound and colour ceasing not for night. 
Unto my heart I counselled, pluck this thing 
Forever out; make lyric your high power 
To gild each day and quicken every hour 
Until grief's knell you herald as you sing. 

My heart surged up v^ith promise of old strength 

And strove your v^ell-loved image to efface 

Made for itself a palace of new grace 

And cried a splendid victory at length. 

And still as roses spring beneath their grave, 

In sleep, Beloved, my heart you still enslave. 



[33] 



DA VINCI'S HEAD OF CHRIST' 

SO simple in thy clarity 
That with mere color and mean brush 
Wrought has he, in pale transparency, 
Spirit on cold stone : singing faith in chapel hush. 

Here are no thorns ; no cross : 

Only in triumph meek, that love 

That was reviled of men and knew no loss 

And from death rose, that it might prove 

The kingdom that dies not: nor has birth 
But is and was, and so shall be 
Whole in itself, nor any dearth — 
Knowing no wrong in its rich purity. 

Some cry, But is a victor there ? 
See that wan face in very agony 
Of death: a bleeding heart laid bare. 
No victory his own. The betrayer, his Gethse- 
mane. 

Flesh not the conqueror. White 
Winged faith the power. In proof true 
To an ancient promise for the night, 
**If it were not so, I would have told you." 



[34] 



SUBCONSCIOUS 
The Coward 

I STOOD beside a door where filtered through 
A glorious bar of light foretelling vast 
And airy avenues, far-winding, past 
Dusty plains to fields hill-set and new. 
I longed for high adventure, longed to find 
The promised tang of freedom down those roads 
Beyond the door; to seek out strange abodes 
And volatile, roam with the spring-time wind. 

I pressed against the door with unsure hand 
Though knowing full the strength of my desire 
To sense the wonders hid, to feel the fire 
Of ardent strength adventuring down the land. 
Yet held by bonds of some drear natal shore, 
Unfelt till now, I faltered, closed the door. 



[35] 



SUPPLICATION 

DREAD hold of night, I ask surcease 
Of your unasked dominion over that far land 
Where nightly I am borne by your strong hand 
And pray an unimpassioned peace. 

Fill not my heart with whisperings 
Of ghostly days, and happy days 
Break not night-calm with whisperings 
Of love that comes, and never stays ! 



[36] 



AGAINST DEATH POMP 

STAY the barbaric hand, 
Veil the profaning eye. 
Let the dead dust be dead 
And bury it quietly, quietly. 

Blaspheme not, when life has fled 
Cherish only the vital memory 
Let the dead dust be dead 
And bury it quietly, quietly. 



[37] 



THE ALCHEMIST 

SEEK not to make clear-known to thee 
All the tortuous ways of life 
For wisdom as apart from the blind strife 
And need of nature can no profit be. 
Great heights are there to climb. 
These shall ye know, when blossoms each high 
time. 

Till then, know only that does urging press 
Deep pregnant meaning to thy radiant own. 
Turns to a magic place all it does gaze upon 
The vital sight and want of livingness. 
Then having power to much within thy gird 
Shall life outstretch at thy wise-spoken word. 



[38] 



BEATRICE D'ESTE TO A LOVER 

ENCHANTED wine you might have found, 
A draught of potent, magic Spring 
That old grey days once more might sing, 
And youth with fresher notes should sound. 

Had you faint touch of alchemy 
That lonely thing, one selfless thought. 
Much loveliness you might have brought 
Through the dark night. Eternity. 

For heart, not mind, our tutor is ; 
All logic by its warmth is known. 
Francis of old went not alone 
Midst lepers; love was ever his. 

We shall be children to attain 
That Heaven which on earth does lie 
In faith to see abundantly 
One lasting beauty with stain. 

Ourselves of choice do hourly mold 
The circumstance, the daily thing, 
The vision ; or at length we bring 
Unto life's shrine, a word untold. 



[39] 



How comes a child to Paradise 
But by his simple, eager prayer? 
Take you of earth such earthly care 
That you see not, that yet have eyes ? 

Had you a wish to see me bring 
Across far seas of thoughts roving 
A thousand gleaming sails of ships, 
A freight of human lore bearing 
Rich you had been, and peace your fate. 
With beggared faith, you come too late. 



[40 J 



THE SUICIDE 

SHE seemed to us a child lost in the market 
place, 
And wondering, and quite unseeing in the din 
How there were brutal faces near, and how the 

dust 
Of many careless trampling feet hung heavy- 
there. 
We saw her turning in the midst of heat and 

sound. 
Laughing and curious at the laden stalls of wares. 
Loving the brightly colored things and touching 

them 
As she passed lightly by, — and nodding now and 

then. 
Gaily, and with a pleased surprise, at some new 

face 
That looked on her in friendliness; for, like a 

child. 
She saw no strangers anywhere, but people much 

alike . . . 
A shifting pageant, wonderful and ever new; 
And in the darkening street she moved 'till dusk 

alone. 
Not minding much the jostling throng that 

pressed toward home. 
Though sometimes even she found their touch 

rough. 
Brushing her aside, unheeding all save the late 

hour. 



[41] 



But when the lamps were lighted in the streets, 

and stalls 
Were closed, and eager footsteps turned into 

sure ways, 
She felt that she was tired, and saw the darkness 

creep on her 
Like something nameless : and she knew she was 

alone, 
And quite apart from those who hurried home 

so busily. 
So, very tired, and seeing in the sudden dark 
A strange conspiracy beyond her grasp, she 

closed her eyes. 
As frightened children do, and trembling, fell 

asleep. 



[42] 



TO A SEAMAN 
Alfred Bjorja 

I SAW you come and go with quiet mien 
All-heeding and attendant on the ruling mind 
To bend your ship's desire to sea or wind 
Or thwart, in fate, a freakish mood of spleen. 
At times of calm, you stood, a granite man 
Symbolic, carved against the western sky 
Peering from 'midst the bows as to descry 
With eyes to treachery trained, the eternal plan. 
I marvelled at your fortitude and selfless will . . . 
Unquestioning you moved as in a sick dream's 

world 
When seas grew murderous and a great wind 

hurled 
Tempests of ghoulish hate against your skill. 
And then one day you told me how, afar. 
You knew a ship with forty-seven sail 
And how the moonlight, gleaming fairy pale 
Lighted each swelling sail and singing spar. 
I thought that never was fidelity 
So mingled with a lover's tender artistry. 



[43] 



NEUROSES 
The Ghost 

WITH groping hands I sought for some dear 
thing 
Known well to me but distant as a dream 
Or followed, half -afraid, a dancing fitful gleam 
Of some bright joy I knew must color bring 
To wan grey days — or light a level path 
My feet had trod for lo ! these aimless years — 
A path to one irresolute, of tears 
And all the plaint of a dead souFs piteous wrath. 
But never could make mine one single loveliness 
Or once see through the stifling vaporous wall 
That barred from my vague touch the sense 

of all 
Warm human-kind or simple blessedness. 
Held captive in a fainting spirits' tomb. 
My courage sickened and I chose this doom. 



[44] 



THE UNDYING 

LIFE — in one hour you burdened me 
With fleet mockeries and ghost-grey memory. 

At your touch I saw, as at magic words 
A world of spreading green, a plain 
Of golden, haze, where soaring birds 
Taxed the heart with melody's pain. 
And sat I goddess-like, throned and serene 
On a still mountain height, set in purple cloud. 
Where lay the world before me — As a queen 
I viewed this gem — As a queen, throne-proud. 
And you, radiant as a spring-time sun. 
As a sun blinding to unvisioned mortal eye — 
But was I mortal then, or was I one 
With laughing gods — No mortal, I. 

Two demi-gods, bright with beauty of youth 

Reading the past and all that was to be 

In the depth of awakened eye. Truth, 

Deep wisdom, saw we, and serenity. 

All of beauty we had heard or thought 

Or lived — all of wonder we had ever known. 

All, time-laden, we had brought 

From that far land, whence we came alone. 

And sought the spirit of ancient lore, that sings 

Of other lives and loves that die, 

That we, knowing many things, 

Should live, in faith and guarded mystery. 



[45] 



Over an April sky 

A light-blown cloud • 

Cold mists for a shroud. 

No one knows 

Where swiftly goes 

The fragrance of the rose. 

Where goes the soul of music, in chord and chime, 

The laughter of a child; 

That short allotted time — 

Harmony of all tones, sweet and wild. 

Time when pulse and eye and hand 

Tell in one short and poignant breath 

More than mind has ever planned — 

Go these things down to death? 

To a still black river of death, 

Whence rises a chill grey cloud 

To meet a barren dawn, that cries aloud 

To Earth — Beauty to me restoreth! 

It was never so. 

We know, not knowing how we know, 

All we have felt or dreamed on earth shall grow 

Into the web of time, and shall before us go. 

Till myriad-sensed, we fixed shall be 

As tranquil stars, in the long night, eternity. 

1916. 



[46] 



SYMBOLIC 

GREY clouds have gathered and have hung 
Day-long with leaden weight, as malice 
They had felt, so to hide the sun. 
No life is in the air, nor do 
The leaves stir, as when the breeze taunts them. 
Toward a weary night, the day has spun herself, 
Half fainting, she closes skeptic eyes. 

And now through darkening mists 

Break forth a hundred waves of gold. 

Giving new- world glimpses of radiance: 

In pure and aureate light are consecrate 

A spire, a roof, a village now re-born. 

As on a high and fore-told hill were set 

A magic city, so the twilight change is wrought. 



[47] 



THE MOTHER 

ALL night long she moved not 
Nor left, close by the bedside, 
The low chair : but watched the flickering rays 
Light wistfully the small white face. 

Grief drowned in grief, and beaten. 
Faith listless, hope forgotten of the past, 
Anguish beyond her frozen world. 
Passive, she watched her child. 

No tears had she, nor any bitter plaint. 
The childish hands were still, and so was she. 
Her one life's flower was broken, 
And dead, and far more dead, was she. 



[48] 



THE LIVING DEAD 

CREATURES of shade and cold half-light 
Dwellers of tombs and ways withdrawn 
Mystically filling the living dawn 
With ghostly hint of strange foresight . . . 
These quiet ones at day do cease 
Their hold . . . And home toward lifeless peace. 

Not such we fear ; the visitants dread 
Are those dear living — more distant 
Than a foreign land, whose loved implant 
Shall sorrow bear — the living dead! 
These come like dreams of shadowed lands 
And touch us nightly with regretful hands. 



[49] 



REST 

YOU are the shrine to which I come — 
A cooling spring, 
Where tyrant moods and fevers vain 
Are given still repose: nor stirred. 
Constant and still are you, nor made to stir. 
You hold glimpses of truth, immutable, 
That ebbs not, like waters. 
Nor rises to the moon in old self-seeking 
But knows dim and quiet ways, 
Remote from earth. 

Here is deep rest, and shadow as of woodland,- 
A pause in summer's heat, 
A lull in human stress, 
Here, at your feet. 
Grant me deep sleep ! 



[50] 



WASTE 

LIKE sparks borne upward on a hungry flame, 
And jewelled but one moment in the dark, 
Then breathing back into the night the same 
Brief ardor of their birth, so my thoughts rise. 
For life, a monster flame, with fabled greed. 
Thus bears me on, devouring good and ill, 
Splendidly loyal to an atavistic creed, 
Unheeding any plaint that aught be spared. 
And, as the spreading evil tongues possess 
First one, and then another blessed shrine. 
Light eagerly, then char, each loveliness. 
These wistful wraiths, like souls released, ascend. 
And deeds conceived to crimson all the skies 
With brilliant pageant-blaze, and guide its wrath, 
As fleeting as such ghostly sparks, arise 
Above the havoc flame, and glow, and die. 



[51] 



TO 



YOU were a voice heard in dreams, 
Heard dimly, and buried 
In the dark caverns of sleep. 
Buried until a time might come 
When need should call it forth. 
— For no thing in dreams is lost. 
And the voice spoke of peace, 
"Be not troubled, my child; 
Neither have fear. 
For in your breast 
Is a giant in fetters. 
If you will release him. 
He will do your bidding. 
Hidden in you are many wonders; 
When the time comes, they will unfold. 
Do not stifle them in fear. 
Live greatly. 

Learn to live as a swimmer 
Who abandons himself to treacherous waves. 
And finds himself borne up. 
Do not fear, my child; 
And know always that I am here." 
Thus you spoke to me silently, 
And your message was borne 
Down windy caverns of sleep — 
Strange and alien vistas. 
And a faint remembrance 
Filled waking hours with mystery, 
With tidings as a shadow. 



[52] 



That spoke of an approaching form. 

And when the dream was fulfilled 

And the fore-shadowed hours appeared, 

They were in turn 

Like fevered pictures in a dream. 

For they were filled with discord 

And with ghoulish figures, 

And menacing tongues. 

And then I heard your voice, antiphonal. 

Rising and falling in a conquering rhythm, 

And at length rising above 

The savage discord. 

And again you said, 

"Do not fear, my child; 

Know always that I am here.** 

And I knew I listened to words of love 

— Of a great far-seeing love. 

That harbored no images of self 

But tended as an acolyte his shrine. 

The services of deep devotion. 

And my heart leaped up 

When I heard aright 

The words that had run, like a minor melody. 

Through a maze of days and nights. 

It was as if silver trumpets 

Had proclaimed a glorious victory. 

And my heart echoed and answered 

With a single cry. 

As that of a child who was lost. 

And finds again the path of love. 



[531 



LISA GIOCONDA 

IN the twilight of beauty you sit by old rocks 
Where the evening of time hangs a mantle of 
cloud 
And shadows of purple, dusk-tinged, as a veil — 
Strange enchantress, your dim secret magic 
enshroud. 

You have looked on far shores where rare splen- 
dours arose 

And have felt yourself sway on the tide of desire 

Toward new seas whence came ships from ports 
charmed and unknown — 

From the great Renaissance and its consummate 
fire. 

You have voyaged time-free to all lands and all 

climes. 
Through the ages have been as a seer without 

age: 
You have known the meek heart of St. Francis 

or Anne 
And have trembled war-girt with a monarch's 

high rage. 



[54] 



A story is told of a princess long dead 
Through centuries of lore in sarcophagus found — 
As of old radiant still with a grace from which 

death 
Has fled shamed — and her beauty is yours, 

mystery-crowned. 

As a prophet of youth clothed in garments of time 
With faith visioned and calm you foresee all 

strange ends 
And await that far shore where the sought is 

the found 
And the child with old craft to a new peace 

ascends. 



[55] 



TO A WOOD-THRUSH 

OF dim and twilight ways you give us sight 
When slowly all that still is, and withdrawn. 
And mellowed after days long — wearied dawn 
Finds shelter in the hour of coming night. 
And now you magically at dusk create 
With elfin silver flute, a dim forecast. 
Lost in its weight of tranquil thought, of massed 
And shadowed groves, where old gods meditate. 

Bewitched and still they pause erewhile to free 
Unto your charmed cadences a vast 
And myriad sense. High captives till has passed 
That brief and poignant spell; — as mortals, we 
Do know alike a moment blessed, and live 
That time, your cool and faery voice does give. 



[56] 



CHALLENGE 

STRANGE, still—this thing— that you, 
Who shatter with a careless hand 
Each beauty of a gentle hue 
And mutely murderous still stand 
Should thus exempt from penance be. 
Drowning in sense all sensibility. 



[57J 



A MEDIAEVAL PORTRAIT 

TWILIGHT of beauty! Gentle repose . 
After a youth's bright noon; 
When soft forebodes the tranquil moon 
Of night. Purple shadows close 
Around that still-poised head . . . 
Setting perfect for a queen of hidden ways 
Who likes not the inquietude of day's 
Swift images, through tortured fancy led. . . 
You are a harp, with muted golden tone, 
Touched by the fingers of stars, on hills, alone. 



[58] 



TO 



AH! Sing to me until senescent stars 
Fall wearied at the sound of an old plaint 
More sad than time ... a sonorous chant grown 

faint 
At dawn ... Of souls in bondage, and of scars 
Born of the spirit's groaning fabled yoke. 
Now let me hear Delilah's subtle voice 
Of faithless passion, murmuring rejoice 
In scarlet victory, 'ere day awoke. 
Sing me words, tear-edged, as with Isolde's lyre 
Lulled Tristan in a perfumed, swooning sleep ; 
And cast your spell of evocation deep 
About me, like an evanescent fire. 
Ah ! golden vessel wrought to hold the wine 
Of very life, a little while be mine! 



[59] 



FORGIVENESS 

IF I should see you turning where that old 
path winds 

My heart would leap with ancient joy and cer- 
tain pride, 

And for an instant I'd forget a gulf more wide 

Than centuries . . . that lies between two faith- 
less minds. 

And I should see with older and with truer sight 

The unchanged vestures of an inward unchanged 
grace, 

That meant for me — how long it seems — a hidden 
place 

Of peace, and ever in the darkness a sure light. 

Ah! If I held that vision through the night till 
dawn 

You might return again to wake me from a dream 

More real than death — that only dims the fitful 
gleam 

Of earthy lamps, when earth's senescent glow 
is gone. 

And like a homing bird that wings, long-lost, 
apart. 

My love would swiftly rise and nestle in your 
heart. 



[60] 



NOCTURNE AFTER CHOPIN 

PIPING of a hidden lute 
Faery, drowsing, distance-hushed 
Colored with a twilight note 
Of massing waters, now dusk-brushed 
Bearing shadowed messages 
Of other peace and stiller rest, — 
Calm that fairer dawn presages 
Fairer dawn and stiller rest. 
Yield thyself to magic hands, 
Walk nightward where white beauty gleams ! 
This shall be a dreamless night 
Haunted by a thousand dreams. 



L61] 



THE ISLES OF THE BLEST 
Tao 

AS waves that lap a strange and mortal shore 
Dim music pulses on the shores of time 
Where tranquil and immortal dwell enisled 
And quired in golden solitude, the blest. 

They rise, rise ever, past labor and longing, 
Past labor and longing, here dwell the blest. 

They burn with the light of peace, the blest. 
Where, knowing all and striving never. 
They pause, 'ere the white dawn of Paradise. 
Attuned to time, the blest, where the rhythm 
Of peace is one with the swell of timeless waves, 
Like music, lapping on eternal shores. 



[62] 



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